


Come and Conquer

by Ler



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 19:55:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5103779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ler/pseuds/Ler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sun Tzu theorized that War is supposed to be a no fuss, quick affair, where one had to adapt to his conditions, make swift, precise decisions. Arthur would agree. One problem, though: being in love with Ariadne, he discovers, is not a condition.<br/>It's a state of mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come and Conquer

**Author's Note:**

> I finally get to transfer some of my earlier work here. It's a good place for it, if I do think so myself.

  
  


 

_Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up._

James Arthur Baldwin

   
  
 

**I.**

 

She lays on the cool metal of the lawn chair and, occasionally, blinks.

He sits at his table - neatly stacked files, a laptop, not a fingerprint on the screen, pens, sorted by color, type, weight, thickness - and looks back at her.

The warehouse is still an empty space, grey dust everywhere, and possibly in her hair as well.

His shoes are spotless.

Somewhere outside, summer is rolling into Paris, and Cobb is having a cup of black sugarless coffee.

He leans forward, front legs of his chair hitting the floor, elbows on his knees, chin rests on his linked fingers. He squints (a little).

The corners of her mouth curls up (a little) and she reaches for the IV line.

_Need any help?_

_No, I'm good._

_Good._

What a strange girl, he thinks.

He is rather nice, she thinks. But what's with the suit.

 

 

**II.**

 

 _You build the maze_ , says Dom,  _and we run through it_.

 _Arthur_ , he continues,  _makes sure that everything goes according to plan_.

_And what if it doesn't?_

_Then we improvise_ , that's Eames, a forger, Arthur's polar opposite - but what's with the Hawaiian shirt - and strangely, he is someone she can relate to. Creatively.

_We have to make it according to plan, but for that you have to continue exploring the dreamscape._

 

…in Cobb's dreams there are: streets of Paris, two kids, a grey beach (like dust, like warehouse), a woman with a knife, a cargo train behind your back, a one-sided showdown, a story of love somewhere in between, a story of death, Memories. This job makes people crazy (a little bit)…

 

Arthur has this raised eyebrows look. Now she knows, and he knows (that is a suspicion, she isn't sure about him yet). But he knows - he makes sure she understands it - that she knows.

 

_Dreams are like games, you play in them because you know the rules, and if you suck, you die a couple of times. Problem is, when you wake up, you must stop playing._

 

The top turns, the die rolls.

The bishop falls.

 

 

**III.**

 

…the truth (which is actually a lie, because it's a dream, because it's a game) of this moment is: he kisses her (or she kisses him, or maybe they just kiss), the projections are STILL looking, Eames' girl is a hussy, he is wearing Armani, and this is his dream and he will later blow it up. He makes it, he works it, he breaks it.

 

In her opinion it's something like that: he is being cheeky, the projections are STILL looking, Eames has too much make-up on, her shoes are very uncomfortable, and she should design hotels more often, because this one turned out amazing. He will definitely break it to bits, all according to plan.

 

He jumps of the hotel bed, checking the position of the explosives; she feels like she should be allowed to be cheeky as well.

 

_Quick, give me a kiss._

 

...

 

 

**IV.**

 

The taxi rattles away from the airport and she lets her hair down. It falls in messy waves and few hairs sticking out defiantly. She brushes them away, hand digging in her pocket.

 

Here is her totem, with a stylized A on the bottom.

Here is something else, and she pulls it out. It's a pen, a fountain pen, heavy, well balanced, so sharp you can probably use it as a dart, black with gold.  _For A_  monogrammed on the cap.

 

The rented car is well tuned, and he doesn't expect less, since he paid so much money for it.

It's too sunny, he pulls out this shades (very inappropriate name in current context), and there is a folded piece of paper stuck to them. Unfold - simple lines, ink, his suit, his face, his hands, his table.  _From A For A_  in the corner.

 

The game stops. From now on they are strangers.

   
  
  
  
  
 

**V.**

 

France. Paris. La Cite. A bench.

 

There is a girl - short but curly brown hair, a pout, a hideous pair of glasses (she lost one of her contact lenses this morning), a bright red scarf - sketching Notre Dame with an irritated urgency.

There is a man - combed back dark hair, an expensive suit, a metallic briefcase, a cup of coffee.

 

_Mind if I sit here?_

 

She nods, carelessly. He wipes the wood with his hand and perches himself on the edge, suitcase stands safely between his legs.

He watches her draw for next ten minutes, silently drinking.

 

_This is really good, but I saw better._

 

This time she turns to face him and, while her eyebrow raises quizzically, while her glasses slip on the edge of her nose, while he drinks coffee nonchalantly, she says:

 

_Excuse me?_

 

He smiles - with his mouth, with his eyes, with his outstretched friendly hand.

 

_Forgive my manners. My name is Arthur. And you are?_

 

She looks at the man - really, this cutesy behavior doesn't suit you -and says:

 

_Ariadne. About a  year ago I had a group of friends who called me Ari, but You Are Not Allowed To._

 

He laughs, unhindered, boyish, and for once she can't help but relax and smirk. He gives her the look (leaning forward, his chin on clasped hands, a squint - he definitely got it from Dominic).

 

 _You know, Ariadne_  (he says is in a way that gives her goosebumps, chewing out the word, tasting it on the tip of his tongue), _would you like, by any chance, to have coffee with me?_

 

 _No_ , she says, but her stomach is grumbling.  _But you can buy me lunch._

   
 

 

**VI.**

 

_What are you doing, Arthur._

 

Not a question, because Cobb never asks questions like that, he makes them into straightforward statements, he likes to get right in the middle of it, as if it's any of his business. But Arthur is going to trust him on that one, because he was in love, married and in limbo - there is a drawing on his fridge of a beautiful familiar woman in a evening dress with a crown on her head ( _aunt Ariadne drew it for us, she said this lady is a sad queen of an empty kingdom, standing on a sea shore far far away_ ) with a spinning top in her hand.

 

Arthur is baffled, like every time Cobb looks at him like that, like he is about to do something stupid, and it's unnerving and embarrassing.

 

_Dom, it's just that she is… You know… Umm._

 

What he wants to says is that she is actually a grumpy skinny shortass, who holds her fork in her right hand, and is an insane perfectionist when it comes to architecture, and stubborn, and sometimes thinks she knows everything, and has more scarves than he has ties and that's A LOT of scarves, and he loves to watch her draw, and can't stop grinning like an idiot whenever he sits next to her, especially when she gets frustrated and starts talking to her work in a reprimanding tone, she does that as well by the way -

 

Cobb still looks at him, intently,  but now there is this wild amusement, akin to one Eames usually has, and surprise, and a chuckle.

 

 _God knows_ , he says,  _I never saw that one coming_.

   
  
 

**VII.**

 

She stands before him, the stray locks of her fringe falling on her face, her lips in a tight line, her glasses firmly sitting on the bridge of her nose. Between them is a pile of plans, she just dumped them there.

 

 _Have a look_ , she says,  _and tell me why I don't like them_.

 

He leans forward on the couch, picks one up and unrolls it. It's a city line, solid, sensible, harmonic, each building crafted with careful details.

 

_Looks amazing to me. This might be your best work so far._

 

Her eyes are hard, she breathes in rigidly, possibly sucking out Arthur's soul with it, breathes out slowly, closing her eyes, and rubs her forehead.

 

_I'm so going to fail my degree._

 

He stands up and sets the piece back on the table. Arthur has no idea what he is about to do, but she is a messed up sight, tired, unhinged, and maybe he should give her a hug. It will be awkward. He still can't bring himself up to even hold her hand.

 

Before he knows, her head falls, and she just stands there, her forehead pressed to his chest.

 

_Dreamwork makes people crazy, doesn't it._

 

 _A little bit_ , he admits to the pounding noise of his own heart.

   
 

**VIII.**

 

There is a wall in her apartment, where she sticks all her drawings of people. She thinks she is bad at drawing human body. Too many variables, too many creases, too many unfinished lines. She says she will never be a portrait artist.

 

Ariadne draws people like she draws buildings.

 

Cobb, cross, creased marble, chipped, cracked, crumpled within himself;

Cobb's children, sweet, flowers in their hair, with faint cherub quality to them;

 _Mal_ , like black smoke, like whisper, a dark ghostly tower;

People on the street, in patchworks, in syllables;

Yusuf, The Sandman, and exercise in pointillism;

Eames, abstract, shifting, melding, grinning, and one time, with a lavish ornamental venetian mask over his face;

Saito, very Qi Baishi ( _You know he was actually Chinese?_ )( _Yes. So?_ );

Robert Fisher, just a pencil sketch, with just a drop of lapis lazuli;

 

Arthur.

 

There is actually a whole "Arthur" corner, where there are sharp lines, and solid toning, and black and blue ink. No color.

 

Yesterday, she added another one.

His vest was bright red.

   
 

 

**IX.**

 

They sit in the dim bars of Paris with Eames, while he talks, and gives them suggestive looks. She  misses them completely (or pretends to do so, but Arthur is still grateful). She drinks cheap sour wine, even when he suggests something more  _sensible_. Eames downs litters of whiskey, says he is Irish, acts like he is Scottish, and charms everyone with his accent. Ari laughs, and slaps on his arm.

 

Her fingers hook onto his. He doesn't let go of her hand for the rest of the evening.

   
 

He sits on the porch of Cobb's house, and drinks beer. He never drinks beer, but for Cobb he can do an exception. On the lawn, Phillipa and James tackle Ariadne to the ground and they roll in the grass laughing. Cobb jokes that Arthur might need to put her back together after they are done with her. Arthur just smiles and says that it might be more difficult than it seems. Dom just looks at him and sips his beer.

 

When the kids are well asleep, when she had her own bottle of beer (turns out she is actually a lightweight), when she is hanging on his arm, she presses a sloppy drunken kiss on the corner of his mouth. He is too surprised  to do anything, and it seems like she gets it. When he finds words to say, she is already slumbering on his shoulder.

   
 

Saito sends them tickets for some Japanese Art exhibition occurring in Paris. Actually, he sends her a ticket - a graduation present and hope for her future employment in his company - but she asks for two.

On the opening she drinks champagne, and talks to all the people Saito introduces her too ( _this is Ariadne, a brilliant architecture graduate_ ), and Arthur has no heart to tell the businessman that unfortunately for him, there is totally other place she would rather be, that solid, physically possible buildings bore her, that she promised to show him later what the fourth dimension looks like (in reality, she whisper into his ear, fixing his tie - he doesn't care if it's perfect already). He just drinks more champagne.

 

Arthur kisses Ariadne in the doorway of her apartment. She doesn't mind.

 

She drags him into her bedroom by his red silk Versace tie.

 

 

**X.**

 

Her body is like a spring uncoiling, and his is probably too, because  her sheets become their battleground, and she scratches and bites, and throws her head back and wails, gasping, and tomorrow he will probably have less hair because she clutches it for her life when his teeth grace her hip bone.

 

Maybe she is wrong, it's not the job that makes people like them go insane, it's just their relationships - with the world, with each other, seeing inside the minds, giving the fellow man ideas and taking them away.

 

Arthur, for one. Considerate Arthur, gentle Arthur, prim Arthur, nice Arthur, who underneath all those layers is burning to her touch, and bruising her with his fingers, in who's arms she feels like breaking.

 

 _I know now_ , she thinks,  _how silly all those simple drawings of him made with a heavy black fountain pen are. I think I know him now._

 

So bites on his earlobe, and pushes him against the bedpost, and ties his hands with his own tie, and whispers

 

_Caught you._

 

He grins, cocky, amused,  _content_ , and nuzzles into her neck.

 

_I guess I'm all yours then._

 

 

**XI.**

 

In the morning his body aches, a shiver of stiffness swimming through his muscles, because apart of the bed (there are traces from the restrains on his wrists), there were:

 

the carpet (there are carpet burns on her knees)

the couch (he almost fell off twice before they found a mutually agreeable position)

the kitchen counter (she went to have a drink, he wanted one too, and,  _well_ )

the portrait wall (he ripped off the ones of Eames because he seriously couldn't do it while He was watching)

the kitchen table (she made a joke about "eating out" that would probably make even the forger blush)

the chair ( _careful, careful_  she whispers, because the back is leaned against her working table and the front legs are in the air, and she is straddling his lap - of course they freaking felt down)

the washing machine (that was… hmm)

 

Now she stirs by his side, her hair in complete disarray, and raises herself on her elbows.

 

_Now I know what people mean by being "thoroughly fucked". Completely amazing but Oh, why do my hips hurt so much._

 

He sniggers, and through muscle ache rolls on his side, gliding his hand over her stomach. She lean over and places a kiss on his nose.

 

_You need a shower. I need a shower too. We stink of sex._

 

She gets out of the bed and through  _Oh_ 's and  _Ah_ 's pats her way to the bathroom. But before he can hear the water, she calls to him.

 

_Coming?_

   
 

**XII.**

 

They change the sheets. These ones have an elaborate geometrical print on them.

 

She lies on her stomach as he kisses the intricate pattern of bruises, the image of their love-making. He whispers a quiet  _sorry_  after every kiss.

 

She sighs, her face buried into the pillow. And then

 

_What does it look like?_

 

 _What exactly?_  He glides his finger along the line of her spine.

 

_My back._

 

 _Well_ , he says,  _there are bruises. I really sorry._  He kisses her shoulder.

 

She gets out of the bed and disappears into the living room. When she comes back, there is a camera in her hands.

 

 _Take a picture._  She throws the device into his lap and lies back down.

 

_Why?_

 

_Because, Arthur, in Love and War there are always casualties. And your meticulousness might make you a great war reporter._

 

He takes the picture and she hangs it on the wall right next to her latest sketch of him.

His naked back with scars and scratch marks and bites.

   
  
 

**XIII.**

 

 _They both are rather strange,_ Eames sips his special, imported lager from the can.

Cobb just smiles and watches his kids run on the lawn.

 

_Who isn't?_

 

**Fin**


End file.
